for what purpose

Christopher K. Burch

 

Dear Lisa. . .

Those words spin in my mind as the ground below me spins in time. The air at a hundred feet and falling is cold, but I ignore it. I just fall.

Two cars on the street swerve and sway madly, avoiding the police and wreaking havoc while I think about you.

The ground rushes up as it always does, menacing, frightening. I wait for it.

Wait for it.

Wait.

Then I grab onto the ropes holding a banner over the street and I swing, feet first out into the air again, cape flapping in the wind like wings. I can hear people gasp as a man in a black suit moves like the night, flying overhead.

The police call me a "reckless endangerment." The media admit that I'm a help to them. The streets call me a demon. It's because of the costume, which is just a goalie mask spray-painted black, and fabric "wings" sewn down the length of the sleeves of my jumpsuit.

I should be into this. I should be thinking about the job. Instead I think about you.

About how I never told you about this.

Gravity holds itself for a moment in mid-air, and I flip, tucking in my knees and letting my body spin backwards. The closest car is right below me, I think. I always think. I'm never sure. I just go on instinct. So as I flip I turn around, facing the other direction. A complete one-eighty. Gravity kicks in and I drop.

The car hood gives partly under my feet and suddenly I'm looking at three very frightened thugs.

I put my fist through the windshield and pull the driver's head into the steering wheel. The car swerves. I'm almost thrown off. I never get thrown off.

I never expected you to understand what I do. That's why I left the room every time you scoffed at the "man on the news." You would tell me how that there always had to be some other way than taking the law into one's own hands. How vigilantism shouldn't be tolerated, no matter how much of a help it may be. The lawyer in you, I suppose.

I'm not into this.

The thug riding shotgun produces one, and nearly gets it level to my face. I jump up, holding onto the roof where the glass shattered from my fist, and swing out to the driver's side of the street. I keep holding on and swing around in one big circle, landing belly-down above the shotgun thug, and punch him through his window. Glass shatters again. The thug in the back screams.

I roll over, grab the wheel, and steer. Driver still has his foot planted down on the gas. Why waste the effort of leapfrogging when I can drive?

This is my life, Lisa. This is what makes me, the nights when you were too tired to come over, and it was just me and the cold air.

Focus.

The car's doing ninety and the mack truck in front of me isn't. Two cars ahead the rest of the thugs are pulling away and I can't get around this mack. I pull hard off to the left and go into oncoming traffic, weaving left and right to avoid surprised drivers. I can see the whites of each person's eyes. The thug that's still conscious screams. I pull over in front of the mack and it honks at me.

Car's picking up speed, still. The driver's foot must be on the pedal to the floor, dead weight. I swerve around one more car in front of me and there it is, the other car, like a pot of gold. Either they don't see me or they don't care, because they're not trying to out-maneuver or go any faster than they already are. I line up the hood with the bumper, push the driver off the gas pedal, slide to the hood, and leap out into the air, ten feet, and stick the landing on the trunk.

That was stupid. Reckless.

I'm pushing myself. I'm trying too hard. It's because this is my first night back since you left me. This should be exhilarating, but it isn't, and I'm taking too many damn risks.

Now that I've got their attention, the thugs in this car are more than willing to share their time. A shotgun burst blows out the back windshield as I jump onto the roof.

Suddenly the car stops as the driver slams on the brakes, but I don't. I'm in the air, moving forward. I find the ground before I hit it and go loose, rolling, picking up a couple of bruises and leaving some skin.

I look up and see headlights charging me.

Lisa. . .

I snarl and leap at the car, covering my face. I go through the windshield, through the car, grab the thug in the backseat with the shotgun and pull him out with me through the hole in the back. He's out. Traffic stops. I can hear the sirens.

The crash behind me lets me know that the driver was as panicked as I thought he'd be.

Lucky.

This is getting pointless, Lisa. I don't know how to do this anymore. It's all adrenaline and risks now. There's nothing else in it. I'm not into it. I can't do my job without you.

The driver gets out and falls to the ground. He's bleeding, looks like he's got a concussion. But I'm not worried about him. I'm worried about the guy who crawled out of the passenger side and is running out in the middle of the street towards that apartment building.

I am not losing him.

I break into a dead run, ignoring the traffic. Two cars swerve to get out of my way. I use them as stepping stones and launch myself into the air.

My leap carries me to the other side of the street and I hit the sidewalk just as he reaches the door of the apartment building. He pulls a magnum from his jacket, barrels through the door and disappears.

Come on. Push. I should have had him by now.

Push.

I get to the doorway, step back, wait to see if he fires through. Nothing. I go in. Look up. He's running as fast as he can up a flight of stairs to the second floor. He disappears. I follow, taking the steps four at a time.

Before I reach the top, there's a crash, a scream, and silence. I hit the second floor and crouch low, expecting a shot, but I freeze.

He's standing there, holding the gat to a girl's head.

"Don't come any closer!" he yells. "I'll blow her head off!"

She's crying.

There's ten feet between us.

Lisa. . .

I stand up slowly. I put my palms out.

This is it. No tricks. No acrobatics. Pure adrenaline and nothing to do but nothing. His eyes keep shifting back and forth between me and her. The edge of his mouth is twitching. I can see he wants to point that metal at me, but he wants leverage, too.

I step forward.

"I'm serious man, I'll waste her!"

She doesn't look a thing like you, Lisa, and yet, to me, she is you.

Step.

"Serious! I'll kill her, man!"

Step.

"Don't move! Don't move!"

I see you everywhere, now. In the morning light, in the stars, in this girl's eyes.

Step.

I think about that night.

"Stop moving!"

I think about your phone call.

Step.

I think about me telling you I couldn't make it over.

Step. Three feet.

"God dammit!" He clicks the hammer back.

She's biting her lip to keep the cries from coming out. It's bleeding.

I think about how I felt when your mom called me hours later.

I see his eyes focus on me; no more thoughts of leverage.

The police found you in a parking lot, throat slit, dead.

He swings the magnum to my face.

I think about you.

"Back the -"

I grab his wrist with one hand and bring the other up and into his elbow, snapping it. He lets the girl go and howls. I grab his collar, pull him toward me and break his nose with my forehead. He slumps to the ground, unconscious.

The girl is on the floor in a fetal position. She's crying hysterically.

The police are close. The sirens just got silent. I should be out of here.

I want to fall on him, to tear him apart, piece by piece, pounding until he's nothing more than a black and blue lump of meat. I want to kill him like that man killed you. I want this man to be him. I want his blood on my hands. But instead I lean against the wall, the emotion of you and the events of the night overwhelming me, and I sink to the floor. I feel the tears come up and I let them go. Nothing matters, anymore. You're still gone, and I'm still here.

I remember why I used to do this. It was because I could. Because I had the ability to save a few people, bust a few heads and enjoy a pure rush every night of the week. But after you left, the rush wasn't enough. The rush was empty. I thought I could make this work. I thought I could push myself further with your memory spurring me onward, but no. There is no redemption in this. I can have no peace.

I hear the police downstairs coming in the building. In seconds they'll be up here. They'll find me and I'll let them haul me away. No doubt the charges against me will be enough. That's when I feel the hand on my shoulder. I turn to look and the girl is kneeling beside me. Her big blue eyes, just like yours, tear-stained and red at the edges, but the look in them is one I've seen before. In your eyes, the look in your eyes in my dreams.

"Are you all right?" I ask.

She nods.

And that's enough for me.

With that I get up and run down the hall towards the window and the outside. I hear shouts behind me. The cops. I break through head first, flip myself over in mid air and land on my feet, crouching. It's raining now. I look around and see a fire escape off to the left that I can use to get to the roof. I jump up and start climbing slippery metal.

The one thing I want in this world is to hold you one more time, feel your soft hair against my face and breathe you in as deep as I can. I always wanted to take you to Paris, but you never knew and never will. The hardest part of all of this is knowing that I could have saved you, somehow, had I been there. Except that I wasn't.

But tonight I was here. And that meant something to someone.

I swing myself up onto the roof. I feel the rain soak into me as I look out at the Seattle skyline.
I think about you. I think about justice, and how there never is any where there should be. I think about how it's your eyes that guide me through this now.

And then I return to the night.